


Paradise (is in bed with you).

by fearless_seas



Series: The Three Trials of Jacky Ickx. [4]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Francois knows the exact moment he finally fell in love with Jacky Ickx.





	Paradise (is in bed with you).

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get over Jacky, sorry. Here is more. I hope you enjoy :) French is my second language so let me know if you have any suggestions (translations at the bottom). This takes place in September of 1973, so a month before Francois's death.

          Francois is standing on the balcony of his hotel room in Monza and rouge sunshine is gently touching upon the scene. He takes a puff of his cigarette and then lets his hand down, a cloud of smoke tumbling past his open lips. Jacky is beside him with his back arched over the railing and his hair gently tossing about in the wind.

          “ _Avez-vous été à_ Genoa?”, Jacky suddenly asks, turning his gaze towards him and grabbing the cigarette form his lips to place it between his own. Maybe he noticed the tight tension in his shoulders, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

          “ _Non_ ,” is all he replies.

          Jacky’s eyes close gently, softly and his skin is glowing under the luminescence. His neck falls back and his hair cascades over the nape of his back. “ _Nous devrions aller_ ,” and Francois’s eyes trail over the carve of his throat. It is a lump in his gullet, a sense of wrong or homesickness that causes him to shift his attention outwards towards the setting city.

          “ _D’accord_.”

          The next morning, Francois quickly packs a backpack full of a few articles of clothing and trinkets like a child on an adventure. He stops by Jackie’s hotel room before he leaves. Knuckles rapping up on the wood before it is eventually pulled it open for him. They smile when they see him, crack the door wide enough for him to enter.

          “I am going to Genoa for a couple days,” he announces. Jackie’s raven hair is flattened on one side from the pillow. He is in only a oversized shirt and his underwear, it makes Francois crave to snatch up the collar of his shirt and slam him against the wall. He swallows and consigns himself to only seeing the galaxies in their hair and fire in their eyes.

          “Oh, that sounds fun,” Jackie simpers and it makes him return it.

          He isn’t thinking (something he tends to do often). “You should come with us,” his hands are fiddling with the straps of his bag.

          “Us?”, Jackie raises a brow.

          “Me,” he could always tell Jacky he had changed his mind. He hears the patter of feet farther in the room and Helen emerges to string an arm over her husband’s shoulder.

          “I’m sorry, Francois, but I will see you in a few days.”

          Francois nods solemnly, kisses Helen on the cheek and passes back out of the door. The minute he leaves he shakes his head, pounds a fist to his chest: _stupide, stupide, stupide_ … He can picture himself now, with his hands on Jackie’s vertebrae as he finds himself becoming slowly but surely less and less as he imagined he would once be.

          Jacky moves over in the rented vehicle so that Francois can steal the wheel for the three hour drive to the coast of Genoa. They appear classy as usual, perfectly put together as they place their bags in the back of the car and postulate in the passenger seat beside him. The drive is quiet, Jacky sits still with his hand peacefully curving on the wind of his open window. For a moment, just a second, he peers out of the corner of his eye and perhaps sees everything that he could ever want. It fills him with the desire to reach his hand over and grab at theirs, cradle their fingers in his. The thoughts toys with him enough that he raises his hand before retracting it suddenly and turning his eyes back to the road. For that occasion they made gentle, wild winds in the oceans of his soul.

          It is the late afternoon when they arrive at the sea and stop at the closest hotel, one with a spectacular view of the harbor. Jacky clutches the room key and Francois manages to flirt his way to a room on the top floor of the building. The sheets are newly pressed, the walls painted baby-blue and the balcony overlooks the sunset and the ships bobbing on the bay. He drops his back and flops onto his stomach on the bed.

          “ _Avez-vous faim_?”, Jacky places a hand on his shoulder. Francois grunts audibly and instead closes his eyes. They’d stopped only just an hour ago at a quaint baker’s stand on the road here.

          “ _Non_ ,” he mutters and the drive has put a total on him because his mind blurs. He senses a weight lift on the bed beside him as he falls asleep. Fingers wrap, coil up in his hair, tug as if to play music from like like a harp. He hums contently before everything goes dark.

          When he awakes, it is past sunset and Jacky is reading a book quietly beside him. Confused, he lifts his head and Jacky sits up, shuts the book and places it on the bed side table. “ _Tu as dormi quatre heures_ ,” and Francois groans grumpily as he swings his feet over the side of the bed. Everything is just a little blurry except for their face.

          “Oops,” he shrugs and stretches out his back, little tendons pop. Now he is hungry.

          Jacky points vaguely towards the desk as if he can read his cognition, “ _J'ai de la nourriture._ ” There are bunches of shiny tin foil ripped on the desk filled with pasta, red-sauce and garlic bread.

          Francois sits himself in the chair and reaches greedily for it. When the food enters his stomach, he pauses and inquires, “ _Où l'avez-vous obtenu_?”, it tastes magnificent.

          Jacky shrugs and he has an amicable, languid quality to him that you do not see often. As much as he would like you to believe, he is just as restless as anyone else. “ _Je viens de marcher, alors que tu étais paresseux_ ,” he returns to his book, folds his attention away.

          “ _Pourquoi ne m'as-tu pas réveillé?_ ”, he wonders.

          “ _Vous aviez l'air paisible_.”

          Jacky wears confidence well.

          Francois takes a shower, Jacky falls asleep instead while he is gone. When he returns, wrapped in a towel, he only throws on a pair of boxers before crawling into his side of the bed. Before shutting out the lamp, he recesses and observes them. The ebb and flow of breaths that leave their lungs in a circuit; how tranquil their eyelashes flutter against their cheeks. He has the temptation to move the chestnut hair off of his forehead or maybe to fold an arm over his abdomen and feel them shift into his grasp. Instead, he tips on the chord of the bulb and hopes his thoughts do not play out in his dreams.

 _I wonder how much of their blood flows through my veins_.

          Jacky, of course, already has breakfast waiting for him when he wakes up. They are sipping a coffee and shifting about the pages of a faded newspaper. Breakfast is simple: tea, bread and jam with an egg. He doesn’t ponder this time where he got it, neither does he ask about how long he has been up and about. Maybe he is a little grateful (but he doesn’t say that).

          Genoa is a sleepy, cobblestone city. Everything is slow and it fills him with a sense of abandonment or carelessness. It is like an old black and white silent movie. Jacky is pointing things out as they march, his notes slow as they leave him and Francois soaks them up. The sea sparkles out past into the coast and a few times he passes a hand over the small of Jacky’s back to urge him along. A part of himself wishes to tell them to set fire to the maps, become explorers of their own right and visit the type of exotic locations longed for deep in their dreams. They tread around for hours and only stop for lunch at a corner cafe with pastries.

          Jacky is attempting to fatten him up. “ _Essaye ça_!”, he has passed him at least thirteen different treats and they are growing out of pocket money. He didn’t realize one could ever grow sick of powdered sugar. At a lonely little art museum Francois gets bored enough that he accidentally keeps touching the paintings (or maybe he enjoys getting Jacky riled up). “ _Vous devez vous comporter_ ,” he chides with a frown and Francois flicks him in the back of the head.

          “ _Je m'ennuie_ ,” he sputters into their ear. Jacky shushes him as they exit the door and grins apologetically to the man standing in the door.

          He sighs and decides to indulge him, “ _Que veux-tu faire alors_?”

          Francois beams and seizes their wrist, drags him along without protest.

 _I trust you,_ he quietly says.

          If he were Jacky, he certainly wouldn’t.

          They climb to the top of a tall, church bell tower. Jacky huffs as he climbs up the ladder behind him and launches himself onto the top area. They’ve been complaining and cursing since they arrived. Maybe the view takes his breath away, steals any discontentment he previously had. The city reflects itself over their irises, every burnt building top and the sliver of sea below. The only sound is the wind funneling through their ears.

          “ _Bienvenue au_ Genoa, Jacky.”

          They don’t say a verse but he swears he witnessed a smile play up at the corner of their mouth. Francois’s hands slide over the railing, his fingers just brush theirs without intending to do do. He curls over and deviates his gaze ever so slightly towards them. A howling, whipping wind shudders through their hair, brushes over their eyelids. Shimmering, pale sunlight finds itself over their features, outlines the carve of his jaw and his lips. He suddenly finds himself breathless and he has an appetite to ask them to tell him about their passion, their fears, all things they have discovered about themself over the years. They have a craving to be loved, they don’t show it, but a part of them is waiting for their kisses to mean something, for his touch to mean anything, for it all to be something. He finds himself just then, perhaps only a little jealous at the wind that runs through their hair.

          “ _Quelle heure est il_?”, Jacky breaks the reticence.

          Francois’s eyes shift to his watch. “ _Ferme les yeux_ ,” he abruptly declares, facing Jacky.

          Brows furrow, “ _Pourquoi_?”

          “ _Ferme les yeux_ ,” he repeats and Jacky does so with understandable hesitation. Dots of fuchsia sunshine freckle across his cheeks. The first bell chime arrives within a few seconds just below them in the tower. It is so very loud that it rattles the floorboards beneath their feet. Francois plants his hands on their upper arms, holds them place and he wants to craves the sun on their visage.

          At the end of it, Jacky’s eyes reopen. A slice of flare shines over their eye, brown transforms itself into amber, perhaps even a spot of olive. “ _C’est cinq heure,_ ” he asserts calmly with a nod. Francois is hushed for a minute, staring at that mini microscope of magnificent light. It was like cracking open a locked treasure chest for the very first time; a murky cave filled with the brightest gold. “Francois?”, he cocks his head, “ _Écoute_?”

          He moves himself away and faces the ladder to descend. “ _Oui_ ,” he sighs, “ _Je suis la, mon petit Belge_.”

          But it doesn’t ambience it. He feels miles and miles away…

          Maybe he truly is.

          They return to the hotel room for a brief hour. Jacky suggests a restaurant that he witnessed on their way; it is expensive but pretty. It might be the cologne they put on but he squeezes their shoulders from behind as they stand in front of the bathroom sink. He grins and whispers into their hair, “ _D’accord_.” But it not what he yearned to deliver (yet, it was the safest thing to say).

          Dinner is quiet, Jacky orders salmon and Francois orders whatever he just ordered because he doesn’t speak a word of Italian. He isn’t very hungry for some odd reason but he pokes around at his food and manages to force it down with a glass of red wine. Jacky raises his glass to his lips and a thought suddenly streaks through his head: _I wish my mouth were the glass they kissed upon_. They don’t notice his stare and he excuses himself to the restroom. He stands there in the bathroom in front of the sink, his knuckles digging into the ceramic and his hair hanging in his eyes.

          “ _Calmez-vous_ ,” he mumbles and his breath is shaking. He glances up and looks at the reflection before him: a stranger, the one with blue eyes everyone speaks of and his shirt collar patent at the neck. _What would Jackie tell you to do?_  “Get yourself together, Francois, get yourself together...”, his eyes widen and his heart skips for a second when he realizes that he hasn’t thought about Jackie in almost two days. He returns to the table and Jacky (the one he _is_ thinking about) has already payed the bill and it waiting for him. The moon has settled on the town, reflects on the paned glass windows of the shops. The stroll is mute except for the occasional noisy bar, stumbling drunk or their footsteps on the sidewalk.

          It sounds better in English. “I think it is beautiful,” he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if he wants to cram the words back in.

          “What is?”

          “The sun and moon,” his glimpse is towards the sky. The blanket of stars over them is a layer of comfort. _Let us lay beneath them and forget everything else but them_.

          Jacky chuckles, “You are a _romantique_.”

          Francois suddenly slows in his steps and there aren’t any street lamps but Jacky’s eyes glow like the darkness above. “The moon glows using the sun’s light,” their back is to the wall of a closed shop, their head leans back at the brick as Francois encloses upon him. “And the sun never asks for anything in return,” their fingers wind up in his shirt, curl up there.

         Jacky swallows thickly. “ _C'est le soleil_ ,” he replies, “ _Il est brillant et beau,_ what more could it want?”

          Francois scoffs and then kisses him softly. He can still hanker the taste of the sun previous lain over their skin. He runs his hands through their sides, threads his fingers up over his hair and tugs. The moan that filled his mouth barely carries him back to the hotel room. The room slams behind them and he reaches to lift Jacky’s hips, they wrap their legs around his stomach and his lips are a full stop on his. He sets them on the bed, backs them towards the headboard and pushes down between his legs. Jacky gasps, tugging on the hem of his shirt and edging it over their head. Francois stops, takes his lips off and glares at him for a moment.

          “ _Quelle_?”, Jacky looks confused.

          The sentence is there. It is there, he can feel them rattle about against the ribs in his chest. “ _Rien_ ,” he puts his mouth down and whispers into their neck, “ _Touche-moi_.”

          And they do. Jacky touches him as no man ever has; he touches him too. He loves the sensations their hips create as they shift underneath the palms of his hands. He adores the sounds that leave him, warm and open. _And it could be_ , he comprehends as he presses into him; _it should be_ , he knows as he scrapes his teeth over their neck; and _maybe a small part of you wants it_ when his fingertips sweep over their collar bone as if it is a marble dance floor for his touch to trickle upon. He pulls Jacky’s thighs closer to his body and their arms tangle over the back of his neck.

          “ _Je_ \--”, he squeezes his eyes shut, “ _Je t’aim_ \--” He interrupts himself as he trembles and finishes off right inside of them completely torn from breath. “Jacky...” it comes out somewhere mixed in the middle of his loss of air. He bucks forward to stroke them until it is over right on his stomach.

          Jacky falls breathless onto the mattress, quivering and digging his fingers into the dirty sheets. “ _Ca c'était quo?_ ”, he asks and his voice is low, nearly unnoticeable.

          “ _Quelle_?”, he slips off of the bed and steps towards the bathroom.

          “ _Qu'essayais-tu de dire_?”

          Francois halted and his mouth drops open. He comprehends what he wants to say, and then what he should say. He chooses instead to imagine it was someone else’s name that left him moments ago. “Jackie,” he whispers, shaking his head and his hands are trembling as he runs them under the tap. “Jackie, Jackie, _ne pas_ Jacky.” He clears his throat, “ _Rien_ ,” he shouts back. He claims that enough lately he is probably lying (and he is). He crawls into the other side of the bed and prays he will wake up with the Scotsman beside him instead.

          In the morning, he doesn’t get his wish but by this point he doesn’t particularly mind.

          “ _Que voulez-vous faire aujourd'hui_?”, Jacky is buttoning up his shirt as he asks this.

          Francois shrugs, striding towards the window and peering down at the street, “ _Peu importe_.”

          They decide spend the day at the beach. The sky is painted a gray that brought out all of the colors in the nature. Francois lies on his back with his hands behind his head and his sunglasses over his eyes. Jacky is sitting up, his toes digging into the sand. It must because it is a weekday because there isn’t another person in sight for the entire shore. The warmth of the sand cradles his skin and the waves roll gently onto the bank. They are both shirtless in shorts and the weather shadowing over them.

          Francois lifts his sunglasses from his head, tossing them into the sand near where he is sitting. “ _Je vais nager_ ,” he picks up his belongings and shoves them into a gathered pile. His ankles are slick with salt and the water laps up towards him when he is pushed unexpectedly. A little shriek escapes him as he tumbles into the water. Shivering, he snaps back up and Jacky is standing there appearing quite amused. “ _Tu penses que c'est marrant_?”, he smirks and Jacky is too busy laughing, bent over to notice him approaching. He grabs for them, tries to rip them by the wrist towards the sea.

          “Francois! _Non_!”, he hollers, digging his heels into the sand.

          “ _Oui!_ ”, he retorts, letting go only to lift them up by the waist. Jacky struggles against him but he only plunges deeper and deeper with an arm over their stomach before submerging their head beneath the water. Jacky manages to wiggle free eventually, emerging kicking and coughing.

          “ _Connard!_ ”, he frowns and shakes the hair out of his eyes.

          Francois winks playfully and everything slows. Jacky’s hair is matted to his forehead, his eyelashes clumped and he swears one could point a finger and count each and everyone of them. He had determined his whole life maybe he required wins or city lights and cigarettes to be happy. But they are making everything better, somehow, makes the world feel just a little smaller. He commands for his hips, moves him a little closer and senses his breath hitch when his hand shifts to the column of his spine. Jacky is waiting, his eyelashes batting over his cheeks. Francois tightens and takes his hand off of them, shaking the water off of his body as heads back up the beach leaving him behind. By the end of the day, Jacky’s cheeks are scarlet with sunburn and his hair is stiff with salt.

          Francois personally wouldn’t have him looking any other way.

          They eat indoors and spend the evening out on the balcony enjoying the stars and each other's company. Francois has lit a cigarette and on the bench Jacky lays his legs out over his lap. For a moment, he removes the light from his lips and focuses on it: the little curl of ash and a radiant spark of ember. He finds it understandable, that humans inhale the very thing that kills them just to feel even a little more alive. Jacky’s neck is tossed back over the bench and Francois trails his eyes over the column of his throat, towards the sharp edge of his jaw.

          “You should teach me Italian.”

          Jacky turns his attention towards him at this. “ _Pourquoi?_ ”, he drawls slow and relaxed.

          “It will be useful,” he notes. Jacky gives into this, sitting up and crossing his legs to face him.

          “Alright,” he steals Francois’s cigarette from his mouth and butts it out into the ash tray. “None of that, you have to concentrate,” he scolds after he gives out a grunt of disappointment. “You already know a little,” _it’s true_. He starts simple, “How do you say car?”

          “ _Auto_.”

          “Country?”

          “ _Nazione_.”

          “How do you ask where something is?”

          “Dovy il?”

          “ _Dov'è il_ ,” he corrects, “And city?”

          “ _Città_.”

          “I want?”

 _You_. “Tu.”

          Jacky chuckles and rolls his eyes. “ _Non_ , it is _Voglio_.”

          “ _Desole_ , _mon petit Belge_.”

          “Bed?”

          “ _Letto_.”

         Jacky quiets and his voice is brimming with sadness, “I?”

          “ _Io_.”

          His face glows under the shine of the pale moonlight. “How about love?”

          Francois nibbles at his lip, draws it into his mouth, “ _Amore_.”

          Jacky swallows slowly and the hands on his knees are so tight he may break the skin there. “I say it a lot,” he rubs at the cuff of his own wrist.

          “ _Je connais_ ,” Francois’s eyes drip downwards, peel towards the tile. He suddenly lifts himself, “ _Ti amo_.”

          Jacky blinks for a moment, gawks at him with a tilted gaze. Then he chuckles, and it delivers rather out of place. “That is a good one to know,” is all they say. They get up and pad back into the hotel room leaving him on the balcony alone.

          Francois doesn’t know what made him say it. He stares at the floor, continues that until his face lands into his hands and he holds himself there. His shoulders tremble just a little as he rubs the heels of his hands into his sockets. A part of him is worried that it is too late. They were that strange kind of beautiful, one that made people run back when it was too late. Perhaps that is what he did then. He wants to call to them, beckon them back:

 _Come, darling, it is never too late to begin again_.

          Instead, he gets up without hurry, shuts the sliding glass door behind him and creeps into the cold sheets on other side of the bed. It is silent and then in the obscurity and voice speaks out to him:

          “ _Peux-tu jamais_?”, Jacky has angled his attention to him and Francois maintains his eyes on the ceiling as though to chase his thoughts over the paint. _Can you ever love me_. It’s a loaded question because if he says no, Jacky will turn away and if he says yes then he is lying. “ _L'aimes-tu toujours_?”, his voice is delicate as if he really doesn’t mean it (or he doesn’t quite want to know).

          “ _Toujours_ ,” but it doesn’t mean what it implies.

          Jacky sighs, rolls over and falls asleep with a little shudder in his slowed breath. Francois yearns to reach for him then and if he could find a way to tell him how he actually feels, he would do it.

          He wakes up first and the sun is only just coming in through the blinds. Something unknown sticks to the hollow of his throat as he moves over with unfamiliar weight on his chest. Jacky has an arm over his stomach loosely, the curls on the top of his head brushing up at his chin. Usually when this happens, he lightly untangles their hand from around his body and then removes himself from the bed. This time, he sticks his nose into their hair, closes his eyes and wallows in their scent. He pretends to be asleep when they begin to shift. Jacky trails his fingers over his chest, over his ribs and collarbone as though every touch is filled with a change of mind.

 _Please, do not give up on me_ ; _I stumble over words but I have so much to say_.

          Francois strips and steps into a shower Jacky has already run. They look beautiful, he must admit, with his hair soaked, tousled and his skin slick. It makes him kiss him, right beneath the spray of the water. He holds them against the cold tile wall and maybe he only got in just to do that to them. There is a flicker of vulnerability when he eventually tugs away, a single second of truth in their emotions that shines through. In the instant before it flashes away, he presses his hand to the side of his face, his thumb brushing over his cheek bone and his touch whispers to him:

 _I want to love you_.

          Jacky swallows, his throat quivering as he reaches to grab his wrist. _But you don’t, do you?_

          His hand is removed from their face and he pushed back. _Please, let me try, give me time_.

          Jacky does something unexpected. Before he answers, he grabs the hand back, brushes the knuckles to his lips, maintains eye contact and then hands their touch back to them, shoved his wrist towards his chest. _It’s almost been four years, Francois_.

 _I am trying_ , _please, believe me--_

 _Then promise me that you no longer wish I were him_. Francois looks down at his own he he has cradled against his neck. _Thought so_. Jacky leaves him in the shower and Francois’s knocks his head against he wall, a sense of hollow solitude as the water grows colder and colder over his surface.

          They pack up their belongings in silence, Jacky taking one last run of the room to make sure that they had secured all of their belongings. Jacky insists he should drive this time but Francois scrambles for the keys before he can and holds them above his head. It happens an hour to Monza, the atmosphere of sun pastes a pretty painting over Jacky’s expression. They are postulated beside him, their shoes propped up on the dashboard as he drives the car. The window on his side is parted and the radio is buzzing with music that he doesn’t understand the lyrics to. The wind tassels through their hair, brings a shine to the smoothness of their face. He realizes then for the first time how truly beautiful they are (and always have been). It causes him wonder if it is truly a nightmare or a dream. There is nothing else: no thoughts (except of him), or worries, irrationalities or yesterdays and tomorrows. The world halts, becomes a splendid place that only they are in. It is so sudden that he freezes and cannot keep his eyes off of them. It was sitting there and suddenly realizing that he was actually home.

          Jacky peers over with concern. “ _Les yeux sur la route_ ,” he gestures and Francois can only blink. “Francois?” he is so distracted that Jacky swears loudly and has to grab for the steering wheel to keep them on the road. “ _Stupide!_ _Qu'est-ce que tu fais_ _?!_ ”, he snaps at him, the car swerves dangerously as they manage to pull off into an overgrown backroad away from the highway. “ _Putain d'enfer_ ,” he growls, shaking his head. The roof of the car is covered in shade. Francois smiles widely, one that brings up the corner of his face. “ _Pourquoi souriez-vous?_ ”, he frowns.

          Francois leans over the kisses the words out of his mouth. He trails a hand up over the back of their neck, moves him closer towards him. Threads, coils his fingers up through the curls of his hair. Jacky parts his mouth wider, his hands are clutching at the front of his shirt as though begging him not to let go. Maybe Francois does it to make up for several years he should've been doing this all along. Jacky’s leg hooks over his as he unbuckles his seatbelt and straddles him in his lap. He grasps at their face, skims his touch over their features. His teeth lowers, brushes over their pulse and the veins rooting up over his neck. Jacky reaches down, his hands slip the loop so his belt open, draws him out from his pants. Francois dips his head, it forces their hips to grind up against his. All of his troubles taste erosion in this occasion.

 _I want you to be mine. Selfishly, thoughtfully so_. _Don’t love me tender, love me recklessly so_.

          He gropes for the hem of Jacky’s shorts, tugs them down to his knees. Francois spits into his hand and they are on top of him as he grabs their ass to spur him on. Their feathery moans are falling like waves over his skin, a trickle and weave of air. The warmth of their skin fulfills him and he scrapes their abdomen with his nails, reaching beneath their shirt. He imagines little moments like feet brushing under sheets and sighing his name against his shoulder in more early morning daylights. He lays his forehead against his and their eyes are closed while attempting to catch their breath. It is the first time he makes love to him. He thinks it for the first time, _I love you_. Then he says it for the first time:

          “ _Ti amo_ ,” he breathes softly. Jacky murmurs, leans into the touch.

          They hum contently with a hint of sarcasm perhaps as if to say, _but you can’t let them go can you?_

          The car smells of sex, sweat and smoke when start driving again and make their way back towards Monza. They arrive at four in the late afternoon. The car parks off in the parking lot and Francois grabs his bag from the back seat.

          “ _Je te verrai en pratique_ ,” Jacky rubs the back of his neck and gives a short smile.

          “ _Demain_ ,” Francois confirms with a nods as they separate into two separate staircases to different areas of the building. He looks for just a moment over his shoulder just as Jacky is flicking his gaze away from him. Francois smirks and the first place he goes to the Stewarts.

          “Welcome back,” Jackie grins at him.

          “You look different,” Helen purses her hips and leans onto her husband’s shoulder. “Maybe _we_ should go to Genoa,” she elbows his shoulder playfully.

          Jackie notices his sudden quietude. “We mean it, honestly, you look happier. What happened to you over these few days?”, he questions with a hint of joke in his tone, “Did you happen to fall in love in three days?”

          “You could say that.”

          Helen shrugs and pulls in closer, places a hand on his knee. “Tell us about it,” she prods with a wink.

          “Nothing happened,” he shakes his head and crosses his legs. _That is a lie_. “I just realized something I should’ve a long time ago.”

          Maybe he just didn’t know how to describe it. His hands still hold the same yearn to hold another as before. But there are worse things in this world than being alone, it often takes years or decades, but there is nothing more terrible than being too late. Perhaps he loved Jacky all along but never recognized it. To him, they felt like the final bend to house with the lights on, a fire lit and a warm chill of laughter; maybe they were always like coming home. He feels suddenly more like himself than he has in a few years.

          He must be crazy, right?

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS (FRENCH):  
> Avez-vous été à Gênes? = Have you ever been to Genoa?  
> Non = No  
> Nous devrions aller = We should go  
> D’accord = Okay  
> Avez-vous faim? = Are you hungry?  
> Tu as dormi quatre heures = You slept four hours  
> J'ai de la nourriture = I got food  
> Où l'avez-vous obtenu? = Where did you get it?  
> Je viens de marcher, alors que tu étais paresseux = I just walked, while you were lazy  
> Pourquoi ne m'as-tu pas réveillé? = Why didn't you wake me up?  
> Vous aviez l'air paisible = You looked peaceful  
> Essaye ça! = Try this!  
> Vous devez vous comporter = You must behave yourself  
> Je m'ennuie = I'm bored  
> Que veux-tu faire alors? = What do you want to do?  
> Bienvenue au Genoa = Welcome to Genoa  
> Quelle heure est il? = What time is it?  
> Ferme les yeux = Close your eyes  
> Pourquoi? = Why?  
> C’est cinq heure = It's five o'clock  
> Écoute? = Listening?  
> Oui = Yes  
> Je suis la, mon petit Belge = I am here, my little Belgian  
> Calmez-vous = Calm yourself  
> Romantique = Romantic  
> C'est le soleil = It is the sun  
> Il est brillant et beau - It is bright and beautiful  
> Quelle? = What?  
> Rien = Nothing  
> Touche-moi = Touch me  
> Ca c'était quo? = What was that?  
> Qu'essayais-tu de dire? = What were you trying to say?  
> Jackie, Jackie, ne pas Jacky = Jackie, Jackie, not Jacky.  
> Que voulez-vous faire aujourd'hui? = What do you want to do today?  
> Peu importe = Not important  
> Je vais nager = I am going to swim  
> Tu penses que c'est marrant? = You think this is funny?  
> Connard! = Asshole!  
> Desole = Sorry  
> Peux-tu jamais? = Can you ever?  
> L'aimes-tu toujours? = Do you still love him?  
> Toujours = Always  
> Les yeux sur la route = Eyes on the road  
> Stupide! Qu'est-ce que tu fais?! = Stupid! What are you doing?!  
> Putain d'enfer = Fucking hell  
> Pourquoi souriez-vous? = Why are you smiling?  
> Je te verrai en pratique = I will see you at practice.  
> Demain = Tomorrow
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a kudo and a comment if you did (I read and respond to every single one).


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